A Song of the Phoenix
by Redstorm of Scar Pack
Summary: When a new threat appears in the streets of Gotham, young superhero Scorch must brave impossible odds in order to survive.


My name is Scorch, like fire. Real name, unknown. I was fourteen when I was involved in a freak accident that changed my entire life forever. It's more than just the way I look: olive skin, blue eyes, straight brown hair. No, life had obviously been in some kind of tantrum when I acquired my powers, because in addition to controlling fire, I'm cursed with something I'll never be able to get rid of.

The truth is, it all leads up to one thing: ending crime sprees aren't all what it's cracked up to be.

At least this is what I tell you about myself.

* * *

"What I don't understand," Detective Phillips rants the second I step into the hospital, "is how he got here in the first place. This isn't his usual haul. He's probably shot and killed all his thugs for an extra slice of the doctor's money."

I sigh at the dead bodies, their wide eyes blank and unreachable. "Maybe. He's probably smarter than we'd like to believe."

He holds up a photograph from earlier that morning, and I grimace as I taste bile in my throat. No, this wasn't the works of nausea. I knew it was my synesthesia working, a condition I'd acquired the minute I was wheeled into the hospital. A condition that let me hear colours, see sounds, taste words … If I told anybody, they would think I was a liar – or insane. So I learned to keep my predicament a secret.

One side of the criminal's face is gorgeous, with black, feathery hair and swift, pale green eyes, but a solid metal mask dons the right. There are rumors about that mask, that if he took it off, he'd die; it'd curse the person who dared behold it; that he acquires great strength of unfathomable levels.

I remember this man in the photo. It's hard to place a name, but given the sickening vomit that's sloshing in my belly, I know some bad memory is associated with him. And now that Phillips has mentioned the word _doctor _I remember from where.

It had been three years ago, when the toxic chemicals had slithered into my bloodstream and made me Scorch. In rage, I'd lashed out at the doctor that was trying to hold me down for my shots. I'd only wanted him to get off me, and in panic, I'd secretly wished I could burn his skin to teach him a lesson …

But it had. Not only had it mauled the right of Aeron's face, it'd scarred me emotionally. I'd sworn against violence, even if I felt that person really deserved it.

"Him? Again?" I enquire. "He's appeared the paper every other week."

"Mm," Phillips intones. "He's not like anything you've faced before." He whips out a yellowed piece of paper, withered with age and torn at the sides. An unholy taste of wet blood licks the roof of my tongue and I stagger back, repulsed. With shaking fingers, I unravel the paper only to find a smile, written in blood, winking at me.

_What does he do? _I scream in my head. _Decorate things with it? _Suddenly I have a vivid imagination of this madman pulling out a paintbrush with the stuff and applying it to walls, a canvas made generously from the deceased.

"Calling out for attention," I snarl. "And here I thought he was finished with narcissism."

"That's where you're wrong." A dark voice, like chocolate being poured over velvet. I wanted him to walk around and talk to me for the rest of my life.

"I'll never forget what you did to me," Aeron purrs. "You ruined my life … and now you'll pay."

I swing my head around to face him, a mere shadow in the flickering haze of light. "I didn't know what my powers would do to you. It wasn't anything personal …"

"That's funny," Aeron snaps, very effectively cutting me off midsentence. "Because I don't know what's going to happen to you, either."

He whips out his ashen double-headed gun with a flourish. The very thing he uses to make every important decision. Instead of using this to protect the people around him, he kept this to do unspeakable evil for whatever reason. The same method he will use to decide my fate.

Aeron studies me, almost lazily, his wild eyes shimmering. "I have further use for you, Scorch," he hisses, clenching his fist around his pistol in an obvious wish to use the weapon. "Let's see if your friend here is as fortunate."

I'm left sweating with a sickly taste of bile against the roof of my tongue. Aeron smirks devilishly and hauls the Commissioner by the throat, spinning a knife lazily in his fingers.

"W-what are you …?" I gasp, pushing myself against Phillips in a bid to protect him.

"Don't worry, Scorch, it's _nothing personal_, remember?" Aeron mimics my tone of voice very convincingly. If he wasn't a psychopathic murderer, I'd probably give him credit.

"You won't shoot me," Phillips snarls, in a tone completely unlike him.

Aeron registers it, too. "No." He pauses, hastily twisting his knife. "Just the person you love most."

Who does he mean? Phillips has no family. His young wife had died in a tragic plane crash; his daughter, face as fresh as a raindrop, a stillborn. He can't love anyone other than them.

I'm still pondering over this threat when Aeron forces Commissioner Phillips to the ground, rid of him, and twists my arm fully around instead.

I struggle and kick in his hold, focused on preventing Aeron from hurting me. I can't use my powers now, not when my senses are overlapping like crazy. Different colours and sounds wash over me like waves, rolling and crashing into each other, like they always do when I'm scared. My fire wouldn't even put a dent in Aeron's mask.

Aeron hisses in his teeth, then he twists and punches me straight in the jaw. He smirks, and it widens into a broad flash of teeth as he grabs me with full force and drives his knee into my gut. I scream into my teeth, and they snag my lower lip so hard that I see blood swim across my vision. Phillips' breathing falters, so faint I can barely taste it.

With that thought, Aeron drags me, literally, out the door, leaving the Commissioner battered and bruised in the store.

* * *

The darkness surrounding me is soothing, in a sense. Aeron has me strapped to a small bed, my throat held down by several metal braces. To my right is a rusty gate, moss clinging to the bottom, wrapping its slimy arms around the posts. Above it stands a well-like chamber, with several harnesses strung along it.

I open my wide, turquoise eyes groggily. I flinch, and then wish I hadn't. The pain that laces through me is excruciating. The colours that overlap and spiral through my vision blur so fast I can hardly call them to mind.

I hear Aeron curse in a language I haven't tasted before, and then sit up robotically. My back is still maimed from yesterday's encounter.

"W-where am I?" I croak, rubbing my eyes gingerly.

"Home." Aeron's answer is less than pleasant. "I see you've weakened considerably."

He follows the path to glower at the well above us. "Many people have gone mad trying to imagine climbing to safety," he whispers, and I taste chocolate liquors in my mouth. "So easy, and yet so far."

"Why are you here?" I snarl, hissing through my teeth.

He catches sight of my expression, a mask of horror, and grins. "A number of reasons, each of which you will learn soon enough."

"I won't give up!" I sneer. "Innocent people need saving from trash like you."

At my words, Aeron throws back his head and roars with laughter. The sound is enough to make my head burst with all sorts of colours and sounds. This sensitivity is making me nauseas. "_Innocent people_," Aeron hisses, grabbing a fistful of my chocolate brown hair. "I'm afraid it's far too late to believe in that nonsense, girl. You made me what I am!"

"This isn't what you want," I pant, my eyes sparkling with fear, blue as icy sherbet. "I know …"

"You think I'm weak enough to show you mercy?" Aeron snaps.

"You don't want to hurt me," I whisper. "

"Where's the fun in that?" the powerful mercenary says harshly. The last thing I taste of his presence is a soft pressure on my chest – a pressure that sends me groaning in pain before he leaves me in the worst hell imaginable.

When I wake up, the bed is cold. My fingers, stiff from the wind, stretch out, seeking warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. My heart sinks, and I frown as I taste footsteps, bright as the sea, approaching.

"_What_?" I snarl, placing as much venom as I can into the single word.

"So much hostility," he chides, a sentence I'd mistake for innocence if I didn't know what he was capable of. "We'll see how you last."

I open my mouth, expecting the strength to assure him that I _will_ last, that I'm not some small, helpless girl. That I'm stronger than I seem. But I can't find the words.

When I do speak, my throat is paved with straw. "W-what?"

Aeron tilts his chin ever so slightly that I almost miss the gesture. "Ever heard of the phrase, 'face your fears'?" he says gruffly. "Well, today we're taking that literally." He whips out a long needle with a flourish, squatting down next to me to gently skewer the point into my neck.

"Good luck," he snickers, his lip curling. "The first time is always the hardest."


End file.
